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双语《霍桑短篇小说集》 雪人

所属教程:译林版·牧师的黑面纱:霍桑短篇小说集

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2022年06月25日

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THE SNOW-IMAGE: A CHILDISH MIRACLE

One afternoon of a cold winter's day, when the sun shone forth with chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave of their mother to run out and play in the new-fallen snow. The elder child was a little girl, whom, because she was of a tender and modest disposition, and was thought to be very beautiful, her parents, and other people who were familiar with her, used to call Violet. But her brother was known by the style and title of Peony, on account of the ruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, which made everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet flowers. The father of these two children, a certain Mr. Lindsey, it is important to say, was an excellent but exceedingly matter-of-fact sort of man, a dealer in hardware, and was sturdily accustomed to take what is called the common-sense view of all matters that came under his consideration. With a heart about as tender as other people's, he had a head as hard and impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, as empty, as one of the iron pots which it was a part of his business to sell. The mother's character, on the other hand, had a strain of poetry in it, a trait of unworldly beauty,—a delicate and dewy flower, as it were, that had survived out of her imaginative youth, and still kept itself alive amid the dusty realities of matrimony and motherhood.

So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying, besought their mother to let them run out and play in the new snow; for, though it had looked so dreary and dismal, drifting downward out of the gray sky, it had a very cheerful aspect, now that the sun was shining on it. The children dwelt in a city, and had no wider play-place than a little garden before the house, divided by a white fence from the street, and with a pear-tree and two or three plum-trees overshadowing it, and some rose-bushes just in front of the parlor-windows. The trees and shrubs, however, were now leafless, and their twigs were enveloped in the light snow, which thus made a kind of wintry foliage, with here and there a pendent icicle for the fruit.

“Yes, Violet,—yes, my little Peony,”said their kind mother,“you may go out and play in the new snow.”

Accordingly, the good lady bundled up her darlings in woollen jackets and wadded sacks, and put comforters round their necks, and a pair of striped gaiters on each little pair of legs, and worsted mittens on their hands, and gave them a kiss apiece, by way of a spell to keep away Jack Frost. Forth sallied the two children, with a hop-skip-and-jump, that carried them at once into the very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence Violet emerged like a snow-bunting, while little Peony floundered out with his round face in full bloom. Then what a merry time had they! To look at them, frolicking in the wintry garden, you would have thought that the dark and pitiless storm had been sent for no other purpose but to provide a new plaything for Violet and Peony; and that they themselves had beer created, as the snow-birds were, to take delight only in the tempest, and in the white mantle which it spread over the earth.

At last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfuls of snow, Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony's figure, was struck with a new idea.

“You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony,”said she,“if your cheeks were not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make an image out of snow,—an image of a little girl,—and it shall be our sister, and shall run about and play with us all winter long. Won't it be nice?”

“Oh yes!”cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he was but a little boy.“That will be nice! And mamma shall see it!”

“Yes,”answered Violet;“mamma shall see the new little girl. But she must not make her come into the warm parlor; for, you know, our little snow-sister will not love the warmth.”

And forthwith the children began this great business of making a snow-image that should run about; while their mother, who was sitting at the window and overheard some of their talk, could not help smiling at the gravity with which they set about it. They really seemed to imagine that there would be no difficulty whatever in creating a live little girl out of the snow. And, to say the truth, if miracles are ever to be wrought, it will be by putting our hands to the work in precisely such a simple and undoubting frame of mind as that in which Violet and Peony now undertook to perform one, without so much as knowing that it was a miracle. So thought the mother; and thought, likewise, that the new snow, just fallen from heaven, would be excellent material to make new beings of, if it were not so very cold. She gazed at the children a moment longer, delighting to watch their little figures,—the girl, tall for her age, graceful and agile, and so delicately colored that she looked like a cheerful thought more than a physical reality; while Peony expanded in breadth rather than height, and rolled along on his short and sturdy legs as substantial as an elephant, though not quite so big. Then the mother resumed her work. What it was I forget; but she was either trimming a silken bonnet for Violet, or darning a pair of stockings for little Peony's short legs. Again, however, and again, and yet other agains, she could not help turning her head to the window to see how the children got on with their snow-image.

Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, those bright little souls at their task! Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe how knowingly and skilfully they managed the matter. Violet assumed the chief direction, and told Peony what to do, while, with her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all the nicer parts of the snow-figure. It seemed, in fact, not so much to be made by the children, as to grow up under their hands, while they were playing and prattling about it. Their mother was quite surprised at this; and the longer she looked, the more and more surprised she grew.

“What remarkable children mine are!”thought she, smiling with a mother's pride; and, smiling at herself, too, for being so proud of them.“What other children could have made anything so like a little girl's figure out of snow at the first trial? Well; but now I must finish Peony's new frock, for his grandfather is coming to-morrow, and I want the little fellow to look handsome.”

So she took up the frock, and was soon as busily at work again with her needle as the two children with their snow-image. But still, as the needle travelled hither and thither through the seams of the dress, the mother made her toil light and happy by listening to the airy voices of Violet and Peony. They kept talking to one another all the time, their tongues being quite as active as their feet and hands. Except at intervals, she could not distinctly hear what was said, but had merely a sweet impression that they were in a most loving mood, and were enjoying themselves highly, and that the business of making the snow-image went prosperously on. Now and then, however, when Violet and Peony happened to raise their voices, the words were as audible as if they had been spoken in the very parlor where the mother sat. Oh how delightfully those words echoed in her heart, even though they meant nothing so very wise or wonderful, after all!

But you must know a mother listens with her heart much more than with her ears; and thus she is often delighted with the trills of celestial music, when other people can hear nothing of the kind.

“Peony, Peony!”cried Violet to her brother, who had gone to another part of the garden,“bring me some of that fresh snow, Peony, from the very farthest corner, where we have not been trampling. I want it to shape our little snow-sister's bosom with. You know that part must be quite pure, just as it came out of the sky!”

“Here it is, Violet!”answered Peony, in his bluff tone,—but a very sweet tone, too,—as he came floundering through the half-trodden drifts.“Here is the snow for her little bosom. O Violet, how beau-ti-ful she begins to look!”

“Yes,”said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly;“our snow-sister does look very lovely. I did not quite know, Peony, that we could make such a sweet little girl as this.”

The mother, as she listened, thought how fit and delightful an incident it would be, if fairies, or still better, if angel-children were to come from paradise, and play invisibly with her own darlings, and help them to make their snow-image, giving it the features of celestial babyhood! Violet and Peony would not be aware of their immortal playmates,—only they would see that the image grew very beautiful while they worked at it, and would think that they themselves had done it all.

“My little girl and boy deserve such playmates, if mortal children ever did!”said the mother to herself; and then she smiled again at her own motherly pride.

Nevertheless, the idea seized upon her imagination; and, ever and anon, she took a glimpse out of the window, half dreaming that she might see the golden-haired children of paradise sporting with her own golden-haired Violet and bright-cheeked Peony.

Now, for a few moments, there was a busy and earnest, but indistinct hum of the two children's voices, as Violet and Peony wrought together with one happy consent. Violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit, while Peony acted rather as a laborer, and brought her the snow from far and near. And yet the little urchin evidently had a proper understanding of the matter, too!

“Peony, Peony!”cried Violet; for her brother was again at the other side of the garden.“Bring me those light wreaths of snow that have rested on the lower branches of the pear-tree. You can clamber on the snowdrift, Peony, and reach them easily. I must have them to make some ringlets for our snow-sister's head!”

“Here they are, Violet!”answered the little boy.“Take care you do not break them. Well done! Well done! How pretty!”

“Does she not look sweetly?”said Violet, with a very satisfied tone;“and now we must have some little shining bits of ice, to make the brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mamma will see how very beautiful she is; but papa will say, 'Tush! nonsense!— come in out of the cold!'”

“Let us call mamma to look out,”said Peony; and then he shouted lustily,“mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out, and see what a nice 'ittle girl we are making!”

The mother put down her work for an instant, and looked out of the window. But it so happened that the sun—for this was one of the shortest days of the whole year—had sunken so nearly to the edge of the world that his setting shine came obliquely into the lady's eyes. So she was dazzled, you must understand, and could not very distinctly observe what was in the garden. Still, however, through all that bright, blinding dazzle of the sun and the new snow, she beheld a small white figure in the garden, that seemed to have a wonderful deal of human likeness about it. And she saw Violet and Peony,—indeed, she looked more at them than at the image,—she saw the two children still at work; Peony bringing fresh snow, and Violet applying it to the figure as scientifically as a sculptor adds clay to his model. Indistinctly as she discerned the snow-child, the mother thought to herself that never before was there a snow-figure so cunningly made, nor ever such a dear little girl and boy to make it.

“They do everything better than other children,”said she, very complacently.“No wonder they make better snow-images!”

She sat down again to her work, and made as much haste with it as possible; because twilight would soon come, and Peony's frock was not yet finished, and grandfather was expected, by railroad, pretty early in the morning. Faster and faster, therefore, went her flying fingers. The children, likewise, kept busily at work in the garden, and still the mother listened, whenever she could catch a word. She was amused to observe how their little imaginations had got mixed up with what they were doing, and carried away by it. They seemed positively to think that the snow-child would run about and play with them.

“What a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter long!”said Violet.“I hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a cold! Sha'n't you love her dearly, Peony?”

“Oh yes!”cried Peony.“And I will hug her, and she shall sit down close by me and drink some of my warm milk!”

“Oh no, Peony!”answered Violet, with grave wisdom.“That will not do at all. Warm milk will not be wholesome for our little snow-sister. Little snow people, like her, eat nothing but icicles. No, no, Peony; we must not give her anything warm to drink!”

There was a minute or two of silence; for Peony, whose short legs were never weary, had gone on a pilgrimage again to the other side of the garden. All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joyfully,—“Look here, Peony! Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek out of that rose-colored cloud! and the color does not go away! Is not that beautiful!”

“Yes; it is beau-ti-ful,”answered Peony, pronouncing the three syllables with deliberate accuracy.“O Violet, only look at her hair! It is all like gold!”

“Oh certainly,”said Violet, with tranquillity, as if it were very much a matter of course.“That color, you know, comes from the golden clouds, that we see up there in the sky. She is almost finished now. But her lips must be made very red,—redder than her cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it will make them red if we both kiss them!”

Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if both her children were kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth. But, as this did not seem to make the lips quite red enough, Violet next proposed that the snow-child should be invited to kiss Peony's scarlet cheek.

“Come, 'ittle snow-sister, kiss me!”cried Peony.

“There! she has kissed you,”added Violet,“and now her lips are very red. And she blushed a little, too!”

“Oh, what a cold kiss!”cried Peony.

Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west-wind, sweeping through the garden and rattling the parlor-windows. It sounded so wintry cold, that the mother was about to tap on the window-pane with her thimbled finger, to summon the two children in, when they both cried out to her with one voice. The tone was not a tone of surprise, although they were evidently a good deal excited; it appeared rather as if they were very much rejoiced at some event that had now happened, but which they had been looking for, and had reckoned upon all along.

“Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and she is running about the garden with us!”

“What imaginative little beings my children are!”thought the mother, putting the last few stitches into Peony's frock.“And it is strange, too that they make me almost as much a child as they themselves are! I can hardly help believing, now, that the snow-image has really come to life!”

“Dear mamma!”cried Violet,“pray look out and see what a sweet playmate we have!”

The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look forth from the window. The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving, however, a rich inheritance of his brightness among those purple and golden clouds which make the sunsets of winter so magnificent. But there was not the slightest gleam or dazzle, either on the window or on the snow; so that the good lady could look all over the garden, and see everything and everybody in it. And what do you think she saw there? Violet and Peony, of course, her own two darling children. Ah, but whom or what did she see besides? Why, if you will believe me, there was a small figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeks and ringlets of golden hue, playing about the garden with the two children! A stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on as familiar terms with Violet and Peony, and they with her, as if all the three had been playmates during the whole of their little lives. The mother thought to herself that it must certainly be the daughter of one of the neighbors, and that, seeing Violet and Peony in the garden, the child had run across the street to play with them. So this kind lady went to the door, intending to invite the little runaway into her comfortable parlor; for, now that the sunshine was withdrawn, the atmosphere, out of doors, was already growing very cold.

But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on the threshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, or whether she should even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted whether it were a real child after all, or only a light wreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about the garden by the intensely cold west-wind. There was certainly something very singular in the aspect of the little stranger. Among all the children of the neighborhood, the lady could remember no such face, with its pure white, and delicate rose-color, and the golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and cheeks. And as for her dress, which was entirely of white, and fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman would put upon a little girl, when sending her out to play, in the depth of winter. It made this kind and careful mother shiver only to look at those small feet, with nothing in the world on them, except a very thin pair of white slippers. Nevertheless, airily as she was clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly over the snow that the tips of her toes left hardly a print in its surface; while Violet could but just keep pace with her, and Peony's short legs compelled him to lag behind.

Once, in the course of their play, the strange child placed herself between Violet and Peony, and taking a hand of each, skipped merrily forward, and they along with her. Almost immediately, however, Peony pulled away his little fist, and began to rub it as if the fingers were tingling with cold; while Violet also released herself, though with less abruptness, gravely remarking that it was better not to take hold of hands. The white-robed damsel said not a word, but danced about, just as merrily as before. If Violet and Peony did not choose to play with her, she could make just as good a playmate of the brisk and cold west-wind, which kept blowing her all about the garden, and took such liberties with her, that they seemed to have been friends for a long time. All this while, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering how a little girl could look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how a snow-drift could look so very like a little girl.

She called Violet, and whispered to her.

“Violet my darling, what is this child's name?”asked she.“Does she live near us?”

“Why, dearest mamma,”answered Violet, laughing to think that her mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair,“this is our little snow-sister whom we have just been making!”

“Yes, dear mamma,”cried Peony, running to his mother, and looking up simply into her face.“This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice 'ittle child?”

At this instant a flock of snow-birds came flitting through the air. As was very natural, they avoided Violet and Peony. But—and this looked strange—they flew at once to the white-robed child, fluttered eagerly about her head, alighted on her shoulders, and seemed to claim her as an old acquaintance. She, on her part, was evidently as glad to see these little birds, old Winter's grandchildren, as they were to see her, and welcomed them by holding out both her hands. Hereupon, they each and all tried to alight on her two palms and ten small fingers and thumbs, crowding one another off, with an immense fluttering of their tiny wings. One dear little bird nestled tenderly in her bosom; another put its bill to her lips. They were as joyous, all the while, and seemed as much in their element, as you may have seen them when sporting with a snow-storm.

Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight; for they enjoyed the merry time which their new playmate was having with these small-winged visitants, almost as much as if they themselves took part in it.

“Violet,”said her mother, greatly perplexed,“tell me the truth, without any jest. Who is this little girl?”

“My darling mamma,”answered Violet, looking seriously into her mother's face, and apparently surprised that she should need any further explanation,“I have told you truly who she is. It is our little snow-image, which Peony and I have been making. Peony will tell you so, as well as I.”

“Yes, mamma,”asseverated Peony, with much gravity in his crimson little phiz;“this is 'ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice one? But, mamma, her hand is, oh, so very cold!”

While mamma still hesitated what to think and what to do, the street-gate was thrown open, and the father of Violet and Peony appeared, wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap drawn down over his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands. Mr. Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary and yet a happy look in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been busy all the day long, and was glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyes brightened at the sight of his wife and children, although he could not help uttering a word or two of surprise, at finding the whole family in the open air, on so bleak a day, and after sunset too. He soon perceived the little white stranger sporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow-wreath, and the flock of snow-birds fluttering about her head.

“Pray, what little girl may that be?”inquired this very sensible man.“Surely her mother must be crazy to let her go out in such bitter weather as it has been to-day, with only that flimsy white gown and those thin slippers!”

“My dear husband,”said his wife,“I know no more about the little thing than you do. Some neighbor's child, I suppose. Our Violet and Peony,”she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a story,“insist that she is nothing but a snow-image, which they have been busy about in the garden, almost all the afternoon.”

As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spot where the children's snow-image had been made. What was her surprise, on perceiving that there was not the slightest trace of so much labor!—no image at all!—no piled up heap of snow!—nothing whatever, save the prints of little footsteps around a vacant space!

“This is very strange!”said she.

“What is strange, dear mother?”asked Violet.“Dear father, do not you see how it is? This is our snow-image, which Peony and I have made, because we wanted another playmate. Did not we, Peony?”

“Yes, papa,”said crimson Peony.“This be our 'ittle snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!”

“Poh, nonsense, children!”cried their good, honest father, who, as we have already intimated, had an exceedingly common-sensible way of looking at matters.“Do not tell me of making live figures out of snow. Come, wife; this little stranger must not stay out in the bleak air a moment longer. We will bring her into the parlor; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as comfortable as you can. Meanwhile, I will inquire among the neighbors; or, if necessary, send the city-crier about the streets, to give notice of a lost child.”

So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going toward the little white damsel, with the best intentions in the world. But Violet and Peony, each seizing their father by the hand, earnestly besought him not to make her come in.

“Dear father,”cried Violet, putting herself before him,“it is true what I have been telling you! This is our little snow-girl, and she cannot live any longer than while she breathes the cold west-wind. Do not make her come into the hot room!”

“Yes, father,”shouted Peony, stamping his little foot, so mightily was he in earnest,“this be nothing but our 'ittle snow-child! She will not love the hot fire!”

“Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!”cried the father, half vexed, half laughing at what he considered their foolish obstinacy.“Run into the house, this moment! It is too late to play any longer, now. I must take care of this little girl immediately, or she will catch her death-a-cold!”

“Husband! dear husband!”said his wife, in a low voice,—for she had been looking narrowly at the snow-child, and was more perplexed than ever,—“there is something very singular in all this. You will think me foolish,—but—but—may it not be that some invisible angel has been attracted by the simplicity and good faith with which our children set about their undertaking? May he not have spent an hour of his immortality in playing with those dear little souls? and so the result is what we call a miracle. No, no! Do not laugh at me; I see what a foolish thought it is!”

“My dear wife,”replied the husband, laughing heartily,“you are as much a child as Violet and Peony.”

And in one sense so she was, for all through life she had kept her heart full of childlike simplicity and faith, which was as pure and clear as crystal; and, looking at all matters through this transparent medium, she sometimes saw truths so profound that other people laughed at them as nonsense and absurdity.

But now kind Mr. Lindsey had entered the garden, breaking away from his two children, who still sent their shrill voices after him, beseeching him to let the snow-child stay and enjoy herself in the cold west-wind. As he approached, the snow-birds took to flight. The little white damsel, also, fled backward, shaking her head, as if to say,“Pray, do not touch me!”and roguishly, as it appeared, leading him through the deepest of the snow. Once, the good man stumbled, and floundered down upon his face, so that, gathering himself up again, with the snow sticking to his rough pilot-cloth sack, he looked as white and wintry as a snow-image of the largest size. Some of the neighbors, meanwhile, seeing him from their windows, wondered what could possess poor Mr. Lindsey to be running about his garden in pursuit of a snow-drift, which the west-wind was driving hither and thither! At length, after a vast deal of trouble, he chased the little stranger into a corner, where she could not possibly escape him. His wife had been looking on, and, it being nearly twilight, was wonder-struck to observe how the snow-child gleamed and sparkled, and how she seemed to shed a glow all round about her; and when driven into the corner, she positively glistened like a star! It was a frosty kind of brightness, too, like that of an icicle in the moonlight. The wife thought it strange that good Mr. Lindsey should see nothing remarkable in the snow-child's appearance.

“Come, you odd little thing!”cried the honest man, seizing her by the hand,“I have caught you at last, and will make you comfortable in spite of yourself. We will put a nice warm pair of worsted stockings on your frozen little feet, and you shall have a good thick shawl to wrap yourself in. Your poor white nose, I am afraid, is actually frost-bitten. But we will make it all right. Come along in.”

And so, with a most benevolent smile on his sagacious visage, all purple as it was with the cold, this very well-meaning gentleman took the snow-child by the hand and led her towards the house. She followed him, droopingly and reluctant; for all the glow and sparkle was gone out of her figure; and whereas just before she had resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening, with a crimson gleam on the cold horizon, she now looked as dull and languid as a thaw. As kind Mr. Lindsey led her up the steps of the door, Violet and Peony looked into his face,—their eyes full of tears, which froze before they could run down their cheeks,—and again entreated him not to bring their snow-image into the house.

“Not bring her in!”exclaimed the kind-hearted man.“Why, you are crazy, my little Violet!—quite crazy, my small Peony! She is so cold, already, that her hand has almost frozen mine, in spite of my thick gloves. Would you have her freeze to death?”

His wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking another long, earnest, almost awe-stricken gaze at the little white stranger. She hardly knew whether it was a dream or no; but she could not help fancying that she saw the delicate print of Violet's fingers on the child's neck. It looked just as if, while Violet was shaping out the image, she had given it a gentle pat with her hand, and had neglected to smooth the impression quite away.

“After all, husband,”said the mother, recurring to her idea that the angels would be as much delighted to play with Violet and Peony as she herself was,—“after all, she does look strangely like a snow-image! I do believe she is made of snow!”

A puff of the west-wind blew against the snow-child, and again she sparkled like a star.

“Snow!”repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant guest over his hospitable threshold.“No wonder she looks like snow. She is half frozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will put everything to rights!”

Without further talk, and always with the same best intentions, this highly benevolent and common-sensible individual led the little white damsel—drooping, drooping, drooping, more and more out of the frosty air, and into his comfortable parlor. A Heidenberg stove, filled to the brim with intensely burning anthracite, was sending a bright gleam through the isinglass of its iron door, and causing the vase of water on its top to fume and bubble with excitement. A warm, sultry smell was diffused throughout the room. A thermometer on the wall farthest from the stove stood at eighty degrees. The parlor was hung with red curtains, and covered with a red carpet, and looked just as warm as it felt. The difference betwixt the atmosphere here and the cold, wintry twilight out of doors, was like stepping at once from Nova Zembla to the hottest part of India, or from the North Pole into an oven. Oh, this was a fine place for the little white stranger!

The common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearth-rug, right in front of the hissing and fuming stove.

“Now she will be comfortable!”cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing his hands and looking about him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw.“Make yourself at home, my child.”

Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden, as she stood on the hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove striking through her like a pestilence. Once, she threw a glance wistfully toward the windows, and caught a glimpse, through its red curtains, of the snow-covered roofs, and the stars glimmering frostily, and all the delicious intensity of the cold night. The bleak wind rattled the window-panes, as if it were summoning her to come forth. But there stood the snow-child, drooping, before the hot stove!

But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss.

“Come wife,”said he,“let her have a pair of thick stockings and a woollen shawl or blanket directly; and tell Dora to give her some warm supper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and Peony, amuse your little friend. She is out of spirits, you see, at finding herself in a strange place. For my part, I will go around among the neighbors, and find out where she belongs.”

The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the shawl and stockings; for her own view of the matter, however subtle and delicate, had given way, as it always did, to the stubborn materialism of her husband. Without heeding the remonstrances of his two children, who still kept murmuring that their little snow-sister did not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took his departure, shutting the parlor-door carefully behind him. Turning up the collar of his sack over his ears, he emerged from the house, and had barely reached the street-gate, when he was recalled by the screams of Violet and Peony, and the rapping of a thimbled finger against the parlor window.

“Husband! husband!”cried his wife, showing her horror-stricken face through the window-panes.“There is no need of going for the child's parents!”

“We told you so, father!”screamed Violet and Peony, as he re-entered the parlor.“You would bring her in; and now our poor— dear-beau-ti-ful little snow-sister is thawed!”

And their own sweet little faces were already dissolved in tears; so that their father, seeing what strange things occasionally happen in this every-day world, felt not a little anxious lest his children might be going to thaw too! In the utmost perplexity, he demanded an explanation of his wife. She could only reply, that, being summoned to the parlor by the cries of Violet and Peony, she found no trace of the little white maiden, unless it were the remains of a heap of snow, which, while she was gazing at it, melted quite away upon the hearth-rug.

“And there you see all that is left of it!”added she, pointing to a pool of water in front of the stove.

“Yes, father,”said Violet looking reproachfully at him, through her tears,“there is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister!”

“Naughty father!”cried Peony, stamping his foot, and—I shudder to say—shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man.“We told you how it would be! What for did you bring her in?”

And the Heidenberg stove, through the isinglass of its door, seemed to glare at good Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed demon, triumphing in the mischief which it had done!

This, you will observe, was one of those rare cases, which yet will occasionally happen, where common-sense finds itself at fault. The remarkable story of the snow-image, though to that sagacious class of people to whom good Mr. Lindsey belongs it may seem but a childish affair, is, nevertheless, capable of being moralized in various methods, greatly for their edification. One of its lessons, for instance, might be, that it behooves men, and especially men of benevolence, to consider well what they are about, and, before acting on their philanthropic purposes, to be quite sure that they comprehend the nature and all the relations of the business in hand. What has been established as an element of good to one being may prove absolute mischief to another; even as the warmth of the parlor was proper enough for children of flesh and blood, like Violet and Peony,—though by no means very wholesome, even for them,—but involved nothing short of annihilation to the unfortunate snow-image.

But, after all, there is no teaching anything to wise men of good Mr. Lindsey's stamp. They know everything,—oh, to be sure!— everything that has been, and everything that is, and everything that, by any future possibility, can be. And, should some phenomenon of nature or providence transcend their system, they will not recognize it, even if it come to pass under their very noses.

“Wife,”said Mr. Lindsey, after a fit of silence,“see what a quantity of snow the children have brought in on their feet! It has made quite a puddle here before the stove. Pray tell Dora to bring some towels and mop it up!”

雪人

一个寒冷冬日的下午,当太阳在漫长的暴风雪过后发出寒光的时候,两个孩子央求妈妈准许他们跑出家门,到地里新降的雪中去玩耍。大孩子是个小姑娘,因为她性情温柔谦和,大家又都觉得她长得挺美,所以父母亲和熟悉她的人总是叫她“紫罗兰”。不过大家都知道她弟弟的名字叫作“牡丹”,因为他圆嘟嘟的小脸老是红通通的,让每个人都想到阳光和一朵朵大红花。两个孩子的父亲叫林赛先生,我们必须着重说明,他是一位很优秀的却又特别务实的人,经营五金生意,考虑一切事情都毫不动摇地惯于采取所谓“常识”的观点。他的心肠差不多跟别人的一样软,但脑筋却跟他卖的铁茶壶一样坚硬和难以穿透,因此大概也是同样的空空如也。至于那位母亲,性格中却含有一种诗意的气质,一种超越凡俗的美——就好像一朵娇柔带露的鲜花,安然无损地度过了富于想象力的青春时代,在充当主妇与母亲的枯燥无聊的现实生活中依然保持着勃勃生机。

就这样,正像我开头所说的,紫罗兰与牡丹央求妈妈让他们跑出去,到新降的雪中去玩耍。因为尽管原先雪花看上去那么阴沉乏味,一直从灰蒙蒙的天空飘飘坠落着,但现在阳光正照射在雪地上,呈现出一派非常欢乐的景象。孩子们住在城里,没有更宽敞的游玩地,只是家门前有一个小小的花园,一道白色的篱笆把它与街道隔开,一棵梨树和两三棵李子树向园中投下浓荫,客厅窗下还长着一丛玫瑰。不过,果树和玫瑰这时节都落光了叶子,细枝上裹着一层薄雪,仿佛是冬季的叶簇,这儿那儿还挂着冰柱,权且充作果实。

“好吧,紫罗兰——好吧,我的小牡丹,”他们那和蔼的母亲说,“你们可以出去到雪地里玩。”

于是,这位好太太用羊毛外套和厚袜子把两个小宝贝裹起来,在他们的脖子上围上羊毛围巾,再给他们各自的小腿套上一双带绑腿的高筒靴,给他们的小手戴上毛线手套,然后给他们各自一个亲吻当作驱走严寒的咒语。两个孩子冲出门去,蹦蹦跳跳地立刻扎进了一大堆雪的中央,然后紫罗兰像只雪鹀那样钻出了雪堆,小牡丹则手脚扑腾着爬出来,露出鲜花盛开般的圆脸蛋。他们玩得多么快活啊!看着他们在冬日的花园中嬉戏,你会觉得阴郁无情的暴风雪所以会到来并不为别的,只是为了给紫罗兰和牡丹提供一种新游戏;两个孩子所以会被创造出来,也与雪鹀一样是为了要在暴风雪中、在大地的银装素裹中求取欢乐。

最后,当他们彼此用一把把白雪撒满全身时,紫罗兰开心地对着小牡丹大笑了一阵,然后猛然冒出了一个新主意。

“你看起来活像一个雪人,牡丹,”她说,“要是你的脸蛋儿不这么红的话。这让我想出了一个好主意!让我们堆个雪人吧——堆个小姑娘——她可以做我们的妹妹,整个冬天都跟着我们到处跑、一起玩。这不是个好主意吗?”

“啊,好!”牡丹叫道,他尽量想把意思表达清楚,因为他还只是个小男孩。“这个主意真好!妈妈也会看见它的!”

“是呀,”紫罗兰回答说,“妈妈也会看见这个新来的小姑娘。不过她不能让小姑娘进温暖的客厅里去;因为,你知道,我们的小雪妹妹是不喜欢温暖的。”

于是孩子们立即着手执行这项重大任务,要堆出一个会到处跑的雪人;这时候妈妈正坐在窗前,听到了他们的谈话,忍不住对他们开始行动时那一本正经的模样发笑。他们似乎真以为用雪堆出一个活生生的小姑娘一点儿也不困难。说句真话,假如能够创造出奇迹的话,其实正应该像紫罗兰和牡丹这样头脑纯朴、心无疑虑,马上开始动手干,甚至于不知道它是否是一桩奇迹。母亲就是这么想的;她还想到刚从天上降下来的新雪倒是创造新生命的绝好材料,假如不是那么冰冷就好了。她再看了一会儿孩子们,高兴地望着他们小小的身影——女儿,个头儿长得超过了年龄,体态优雅而灵活,肤色娇嫩,看上去就像一种欢乐的意念,而不像血肉之躯——牡丹的个子却往宽处长不往高处长,迈着又短又结实的双腿滚来滚去,像一头大象般壮实,虽说并没有那么庞大。接着妈妈又继续干她的活儿。我记不起她干的是什么活儿了;总之不是在为紫罗兰修整绸帽,就是在织补小牡丹的短腿穿的一双长袜吧。不过她忍不住一而再、再而三地把头转向窗口,去看孩子们的雪人堆得怎么样了。

的确,这真是极其令人愉悦的景象,两个生气勃勃的小家伙在忙着干自己的工作!看着他们干得那么内行那么熟练,又是多么的美妙。紫罗兰担任指挥,吩咐弟弟该干什么,而她则用自己纤细的小手塑造雪人更细致的部位。事实上,雪人似乎不是两个孩子堆出来的,倒像是在他们手下逐渐长大的,而他们一直在同雪人玩耍和天真地交谈着。他们的母亲看到这一切非常惊奇;她看得越久,就越是惊奇。

“我的孩子多出色呀!”她心想,怀着母亲的骄傲微笑着,同时也在笑自己怎么会为孩子感到如此骄傲。“别的孩子第一次尝试就能用雪堆出这么活灵活现的小姑娘吗?唔——可我现在必须缝好牡丹的新外衣,因为他爷爷明天要来,我想让小家伙看上去漂亮些。”

于是她拿起那件外衣,很快就像两个孩子忙着堆雪人那样又忙碌地缝起来。不过当母亲在衣服上飞针走线的时候,仍然倾听着紫罗兰和牡丹快活的声音,从而使她的劳作变得轻巧而愉快。两个孩子一直在相互交谈着,舌头和手脚一样地动个不停。时不时地,她会听不清他们谈些什么,只是喜滋滋地感到他们彼此亲亲爱爱,正玩得非常开心,堆雪人的活儿也进行得很顺利。不过有时候紫罗兰和牡丹碰巧会提高声音,他们说的话便能字字听清,就像在母亲眼下置身的客厅里说话一样。啊,这些话在她心里多么愉快地回响着啊,即使他们自己根本无意说得这么聪明和精彩!

不过你应该明白,一位母亲在倾听时用心远胜于用耳朵,这样她就常常会因仙乐的颤音而感到欢悦,别的人对此却一无所闻。

“牡丹!牡丹!”紫罗兰高声喊着弟弟,他跑到花园的另一边去了。“给我运一些新雪来,牡丹,从最远的那个角落,我们还没踩过的地方。我要用它来做小雪妹妹的胸膛。你知道那部分必须非常洁白,就同刚从天上落下的雪一样。”

“给你,紫罗兰!”牡丹回答道,他的语气很粗率——但那语气也非常可爱——一面从踏得半紧的雪堆中踉踉跄跄地走过来。“给你做胸膛的白雪。啊,紫罗兰,她的模样开始变得多么——美——丽呀!”

“是呀,”紫罗兰若有所思地轻声说,“我们的雪妹妹的确很可爱。我真没有想到,牡丹,我们能堆出一个这么漂亮的小姑娘。”

妈妈一边听一边想,假如仙女们——或者更好些——小天使们能从天堂下凡,隐着身形同她的宝贝们一起玩耍,帮助他们堆雪人,并赋予它仙童般的相貌,那该是多么美妙的事情啊!紫罗兰和牡丹是不会觉察到这些神仙玩伴的,他们只会在干活儿的时候看到雪人变得非常美丽,还以为全是自己的功劳呢。

“我的小姑娘和小男孩配有这种玩伴,只要人间的孩子曾经有过这种经历!”母亲自语道,接着又为自己母性的骄傲而自嘲地笑起来。

然而,这个念头却牢牢抓住了她的想象;她不时地朝窗外瞥上一眼,半梦半真地觉得自己会看到来自天堂的金发仙童正在同金发的紫罗兰和红脸蛋的牡丹玩耍着。

现在,有一阵子,又传来两个孩子匆促而热切的却又不太分明的说话声,这是紫罗兰和牡丹正高兴地协力干活儿。紫罗兰好像仍然在当指挥,牡丹则更像是出劳力的,从远处近处给她运雪过来。不过这小淘气显然很通晓自己的行当!

“牡丹,牡丹!”紫罗兰喊道,因为弟弟又跑到花园另一边去了。“把绕在梨树矮枝上的小雪圈弄些过来。你可以爬到雪堆上去,牡丹,这样就容易摸到了。给雪妹妹做鬈发非得要用它!”

“给你,紫罗兰!”小男孩回答,“当心别弄碎了。干得好!干得好!多漂亮啊!”

“她是不是很可爱啊?”紫罗兰的声音里含着满足,“现在我们还得弄些闪亮的小冰块来,给她做亮晶晶的眼睛。她还没完工哪。妈妈会觉得她非常美丽;不过爸爸会说:‘啐!瞎胡闹!——快从冰冷的外面进屋来!’”

“我们叫妈妈朝窗外看,”牡丹说,接着就大声喊,“妈妈!妈妈!!妈妈!!!朝外看,看我们做了一个多可爱的小雪妹妹呀!”

母亲暂时放下手中的活儿,朝窗外望去。可是碰巧这时太阳已经降落得接近地球边缘——因为今天属于一年中白昼最短的季节——余晖正斜照着这位太太的双眼。所以你要明白,她被晃得眼花缭乱,不太能看清花园里的东西。不过,透过夕阳与新雪那明亮炫目的光线,她还是看到园中有一个小小的白色身影,似乎跟真人一模一样。她也看到了紫罗兰和牡丹——实际上她看他们的时间比看雪人更长——她看到两个孩子还在忙着干活儿;牡丹在运送新雪,紫罗兰则把雪堆到雪人身上,谨严得就像一个雕塑家在给他的塑像雏形添加黏土。她虽然不太能看清雪娃娃的模样,却暗自思忖过去从没见过谁能把雪人做得这么精巧,更没见过有这么可爱的小姑娘和小男孩能做得出来。

“他们干什么事都比别的孩子强,”妈妈说,心里很是得意,“难怪雪人也堆得更好!”

她又坐下来干她的活儿,而且尽量干得更快些;因为天色很快就要暗下来了,而牡丹的外衣还没有完工,预计爷爷明天一大早就会乘火车到达。于是她飞针走线,缝得越来越快。孩子们也一直在花园里忙碌着,不过母亲仍然在倾听,尽量捕捉到他们的只言片语。她颇有兴味地注意到两个孩子把自己幼稚的想象同正在干的事儿融合在一起,不由自主地完全沉浸在想象之中。他们似乎认定雪孩子真的会跟着他们跑来跑去,一道玩耍哩。

“她会是我们多好的玩伴啊,整整一个冬天!”紫罗兰说,“我希望爸爸不会害怕她让我们患感冒!你能不喜欢她吗,牡丹?”

“啊,喜欢!”牡丹叫道,“我还要抱住她,她会紧挨着我坐,喝我的热牛奶!”

“啊,不行,牡丹!”紫罗兰回答,一本正经地显示自己有见识,“那根本不行。热牛奶不适宜我们的小雪妹妹的身体健康。像她这样的小雪人除了冰棍儿什么也不吃。不,不,牡丹;我们不能给她喝任何热东西!”

有那么一两分钟静默无声,因为小腿儿不知疲倦的牡丹又跑到花园的另一边去了。突然,紫罗兰快乐地大叫起来:“快看这儿,牡丹!快来呀!从那片玫瑰红的云彩里射出了一道光,正照在她的脸蛋儿上!玫瑰红色一直不消失!不是很美丽吗?”

“是呀,真——美——丽,”牡丹回答道,特意留神把三个音节念准确,“啊,紫罗兰,看看她的头发!像金子一样!”

“啊,当然,”紫罗兰平静地说,好像这完全是毋庸置疑的事,“这种颜色,你知道,是从我们看见的天上那些金色云彩里得来的。她现在差不多完工了。不过她的嘴唇应当很红——比她的脸蛋儿更红。牡丹,要是我们都亲亲她的嘴唇,说不定就能使它变红!”

于是,母亲听见了两下轻快的亲吻声,好像两个孩子都在雪孩子那冰凉的嘴上亲了亲。不过,似乎这样并没有使雪孩子的嘴唇足够红润,紫罗兰又建议让雪孩子去亲吻牡丹的红脸蛋儿。

“来吧,小雪妹妹,亲亲我!”牡丹喊道。

“好啦!她亲过你了,”紫罗兰接着说,“现在她的嘴唇很红了。她还窘得有点脸红了哩!”

“啊,多凉的吻啊!”牡丹叫了起来。

这在这时候,西边吹来一股洁净无尘的微风,扫过花园,刮得客厅的窗户咯咯作响。风声令人顿感料峭的冬寒,母亲正要用她戴着顶针的手指去敲窗玻璃,唤两个孩子进屋来,他们却突然齐声对她发出喊叫。那并不是惊诧的声音,不过能明显地听出他们非常激动;像是因为眼前发生的什么事而欢欣鼓舞,而那件事他们一直在盼望着并且料想到会发生。

“妈妈!妈妈!我们的小雪妹妹做成了,她正在跟我们一道在花园里跑呢!”

“多么富于想象力的小家伙啊!”母亲心想,一面给牡丹的外衣缝上最后几针,“说来也怪,他们让我几乎也变成他们那样的小孩子了!现在,我也禁不住相信那个小雪人真的变活啦!”

“亲爱的妈妈!”紫罗兰喊道,“请往外面看,看看我们有个多么可爱的玩伴啊!”

母亲被孩子们这么一央求,再也不能耽搁,赶紧从窗户往外看。太阳这时已从天际消失,但把光明的丰厚遗产留给了那些紫色和金色的云霞,使得冬日的黄昏显得如此壮观。不过,窗户上和雪地上没有一丝刺眼和炫目的亮光,所以那位慈爱的太太能够将花园遍览无遗,看清园中的每一件东西和每一个人。你猜她在花园里看见了什么?当然,看见了紫罗兰和牡丹,她的两个宝贝孩子。啊,可是除了他们,她还看见了什么东西或者什么人呢?嗨,如果你肯相信的话,花园里还有一个小姑娘的身影,她穿着一身雪白的衣裳,脸颊泛着玫瑰色的红晕,鬈发辉耀着金黄的光泽,正同两个孩子在那儿玩哩!尽管她是个陌生人,却显得跟紫罗兰和牡丹挺亲密,他们对她也是这样,仿佛三个人自出生以来就一直在一起玩似的。母亲心中暗想,这一定是某位邻居家的小女儿,看到紫罗兰和牡丹在花园里,就穿过大街跑来同他们一起玩耍。于是,这位慈爱的太太就走到门口,想邀请这个偷跑出来的小姑娘进自己舒适的客厅里来;因为阳光已经消逝,户外的空气正变得越来越寒冷了。

可是,她打开房门后,却在门槛前站立了片刻,犹豫着是不是该请这孩子进来,或者是不是该跟她讲话。的确,她几乎怀疑这究竟是不是个真孩子,或者只是新降下的雪所映照出的一个光圈,被猛烈的寒风刮得在花园里到处转。这个陌生小孩的模样颇有些不寻常。在所有邻居的孩子中,太太想不起谁有这样一张脸孔,有这么洁白的皮肤,有这样精致的玫瑰红的脸蛋儿,额前和脸颊边还有金色的鬈发在飘扬。至于她的衣裳,一身都是雪白的,在风中招展着,在严寒的冬季,有理智的女人是绝不会让孩子穿着这样的衣裳到户外去玩耍的。只要看一看那双小脚,慈爱而细心的母亲就不禁打了个寒战;脚上什么也没有穿,只有一双极薄的白色小拖鞋。然而,她尽管穿得极其单薄,却似乎丝毫也不感觉寒冷,竟那么轻盈地在雪地里翩翩起舞,脚尖在地面上几乎没留下一个脚印。紫罗兰只能勉强赶上她的脚步,牡丹的腿太短,不得不落在后头。

在他们游戏的过程中,新来的孩子有一次跑到紫罗兰和牡丹中间,分别牵起他们的一只手,快活地朝前跳,他们也跟着她跳。可是,牡丹几乎立刻就抽出了他的小手,开始用力地搓,好像手指头被冻疼了似的。紫罗兰也松开了她的手,不过动作没有那么突然,同时一本正经地说还是别拉手好些。穿白袍子的小姑娘什么也没说,只是继续跳舞,和原先一样的快活。就算紫罗兰和牡丹不愿意跟她一起玩,她也能让轻快而寒冷的西风做她的好玩伴,让风儿把她刮得在花园里转悠,任风儿对她那么随意放肆,似乎他们已是多年相熟的老朋友了。母亲一直站在门口看着,心里纳闷小姑娘怎么会那样像飞舞的雪花,或者说雪花怎么会那样像小姑娘。

她把紫罗兰叫过来,悄声地说:

“紫罗兰,我的宝贝,这个孩子叫什么名字?”她问道,“她就住在我们附近吧?”

“嗨,亲爱的妈妈,”女儿大笑着回答,心想妈妈连这么明白的事情都不懂,“这就是我们刚才一直在做的小雪妹妹呀!”

“是呀,亲爱的妈妈,”牡丹高声说,一面朝妈妈跟前跑去,抬起头率真地望着她的脸,“这就是我们的小雪人!她不是一个可爱的小孩子吗?”

就在这时候,有一群雪鹀从空中飞掠而至。很自然,它们躲开了紫罗兰和牡丹,但是——这看来很奇怪——它们立刻就向白衣小姑娘飞去,在她头上急匆匆拍翅飞翔着,然后停落到她肩头上,仿佛确认她是一个老朋友似的。而小雪人呢,见到这些小鸟儿——冬爷爷的小孙子——显然很高兴,就像它们见到她很高兴一样,并且伸出她的双手来欢迎它们。于是小鸟们全都急着要落到她的两只手掌上和十根小手指上,你挤我我挤你,小翅膀使劲地扑腾着。一只可爱的小鸟温柔地蜷在她的胸怀中,另一只则伸出嘴去亲她的嘴唇。它们始终是那么快活,那么惬意,正像你也许见过的它们同暴风雪嬉戏时的情景。

紫罗兰和牡丹站在那里,看着这美妙的情景开怀大笑;他们分享着新伙伴与这些长着小翅膀的客人共度的欢乐时光,就像自己也参与其中一样。

“紫罗兰,”母亲颇感困惑地说,“跟我讲实话,别开玩笑,这个小姑娘是谁?”

“我亲爱的妈妈,”紫罗兰回答道,她严肃地望着母亲的脸,显然对她竟需要进一步的解释感到吃惊,“我已经告诉过你她是谁了。她是我们的小雪人,是牡丹同我一起造出来的。牡丹也会像我这样告诉你。”

“是的,妈妈,”牡丹断然肯定说,红红的小脸显得非常严肃,“这就是雪孩子。她不是很可爱吗?不过,妈妈,她的手多冷啊!”

正当妈妈犹豫着不知该怎么想和怎么做的时候,临街的大门忽然被推开了,紫罗兰和牡丹的父亲走了进来。他穿着宽大的厚绒呢短外衣,毛皮帽低低拉下来罩在耳朵上,戴着一双极厚的手套。林赛先生是个中年人,那张被风吹红、被霜刺疼的脸上显露出疲乏却又快乐的神情,仿佛他已经忙碌了一整天,现在很高兴能回到安宁的家中。他看到妻子和孩子们,不由得双眼一亮,虽然发现全家人在这么阴冷的天气,而且在日落之后都站在露天里,忍不住说了一两句表示惊奇的话。他很快就发觉了那个穿白衣的陌生小姑娘,正在花园里跑来跑去,就像一只旋舞的雪花圈,还有一群雪鹀在她头上飞翔着。

“嗨,那个小姑娘是谁呀?”这位深明事理的男人问道,“她母亲一定是疯了,竟让她在今天这样冷得刺骨的天气里跑出来,只穿着那件轻飘飘的白袍子,那么一双薄薄的拖鞋!”

“亲爱的丈夫,”他妻子说,“关于这个小家伙我知道的并不比你多。我猜想,大概是哪家邻居的孩子吧。可我们的紫罗兰和牡丹,”她接着又补充道,暗自笑话自己居然会重复一个如此荒唐的故事,“却硬说她只不过是个小雪人,他俩差不多整个下午都在花园里忙着干这件事。”

母亲一边说着,一边把目光投向孩子们原来堆雪人的地方。当她看到孩子们费了那么多工夫堆成的雪人竟然无踪无影,是何等惊异啊!——根本没有雪人——甚至也没有雪堆!——什么也没有,除了一块空地周围留下的一圈小脚印!

“这真是太奇怪了!”她说。

“有什么奇怪的,亲爱的妈妈?”紫罗兰问,“亲爱的爸爸,难道你还不明白吗?这就是我们的小雪人,是牡丹和我造出来的,因为我们想再有个玩伴。是不是,牡丹?”

“是呀,爸爸,”红脸蛋儿的牡丹说,“这是我们的小雪妹妹,她不是很——美——丽吗?可是她给了我一个那么冷的吻!”

“啐!胡说八道,孩子们!”他们那正直而诚实的父亲大喝道,我们已经提到过,他看待事物特别符合常情常理。“别告诉我什么用雪造出活人来的胡话。好啦,太太;这个陌生的小姑娘片刻也不能在阴冷的户外待下去了。我们要把她带进客厅里去;你用热面包和热牛奶给她做一餐晚饭,尽量让她舒适些。同时,我到几个邻居家去问一问;如果有必要,叫城里传呼消息的人沿街喊一喊,通知大家这儿有个走丢了的孩子。”

这位为人诚实而且心地非常仁慈的男子一边这么说着,一边朝白衣小姑娘走去,心中怀着世上最良好的意愿。可是紫罗兰和牡丹每人拉住父亲的一只手,急切地恳求他别带她进屋。

“亲爱的爸爸,”紫罗兰喊道,把身子朝他跟前一挡,“我给你说的是实话!这是我们的小雪妹妹,她不呼吸寒风就一刻也活不下去。别带她进暖和的屋子!”

“是的,爸爸,”牡丹高声叫道,热切地用力跺着他的小脚,“这就是我们的小雪娃娃!她不喜欢热烘烘的炉火!”

“胡说八道,孩子们,胡说八道,胡说八道!”父亲喝道,他认为他们这是愚蠢的固执,半觉恼怒,半觉好笑。“跑步进屋去,马上跑!现在天太晚了,不能再玩了。我必须赶紧照料这个小姑娘,不然她会冻死的!”

“亲爱的丈夫!”妻子悄声地说——她一直在仔细观看那个雪孩子,现在感到比原先更迷惑了——“这件事里有些地方真的很奇特。你会觉得我在犯傻——不过——不过——说不定我们的孩子做雪人的那种单纯与真诚,吸引了某个隐身的天使吧?说不定她在那永恒生命中花上一个钟头,来和两个可爱的小家伙玩耍了一会儿吧?其结果就产生了人们所说的奇迹。不,不!别笑我;我知道这是个愚蠢的想法!”

“我亲爱的太太,”丈夫开心大笑着回答,“你简直跟紫罗兰和牡丹一样是个孩子。”

在某种意义上看,她的确是如此,因为她终其一生都让自己的心充满了孩子般的单纯与真诚,她的心就像水晶一样纯洁清澈;而且她透过这明澈的心去看待一切事物,常常能看到极为深刻的真理,其他人却将其视为愚蠢与荒唐而加以嘲笑。

然而此刻,好心的林赛先生已经挣脱了两个孩子,走进了花园;两个孩子仍然在他身后尖叫着,央求他让雪孩子自由自在地留在寒冷的西风中。当他一走近,那群雪鹀就全飞走了。白衣小姑娘也往后逃,一边摇着头,仿佛在说:“请别碰我!”看上去她好像还淘气地把他引向雪堆的最深处。有一次,那位好心人脚下一绊,踉跄着摔了个嘴啃泥,爬起来的时候粗呢外衣上沾满了雪,白花花的活像个最大号的雪人。与此同时,有些邻居从自家窗户里望见他,都纳闷可怜的林赛先生中了哪门子邪,竟在自己的花园里跑来跑去,追赶被西风刮得四处窜的一团雪!终于,经过了千辛万苦,他把陌生的小姑娘赶进了一个角落,这下她再也没法从他手中逃走了。妻子一直在旁边看着,这时已接近天黑时分,她突然惊奇地发现雪孩子身上晶莹闪烁,好像浑身上下都在发光;被赶进那个角落里时,她简直就像一颗星星那样闪耀着光辉!那是一种冷若冰霜的光辉,犹如冰柱在月光下发出的寒光。妻子心想,奇怪的是林赛先生竟看不出雪孩子有任何异常的地方。

“过来,你这古怪的小家伙!”诚实的人喊叫道,一把抓住雪孩子的手,“我终于逮住你啦,我要让你舒舒服服的,不管你愿意不愿意。我们要给你冻伤的小脚穿上一双暖和的毛线袜,再用又软又厚的披巾把你包起来。我担心你那可怜的小白鼻子已经冻坏啦,不过我们会把一切弄妥帖的。快跟我进屋去。”

就这样,这位意愿极其良好的先生尽管满脸冻成了青紫色,却仍然带着最慈爱的笑容,拉住雪孩子的手朝家门走去。雪孩子跟着他,垂头丧气,满心的不乐意;她身上所有的光辉和闪光都消失了。刚才她还像霜冻时节缀满群星的明亮黄昏,在寒冷的地平线上焕发出绯红的余晖,现在却像融化了的冰雪一样阴郁暗淡,没精打采。在慈爱的林赛先生带她走上门前的台阶时,紫罗兰和牡丹窥视着他的脸——他们眼中充满了泪水,没等流下脸蛋儿就冻成了冰——姐弟俩再次恳求他别带小雪人进屋。

“不带她进去!”那位好心肠的人惊呼道,“嗨,你疯啦,我的小紫罗兰!——真是疯了,我的小牡丹!她已经这么冰凉啦,她的手几乎把我的手给冻坏了,尽管我戴着厚厚的手套。你们想让她冻死吗!”

在他走上台阶的时候,妻子又久久地凝视着陌生的白衣小姑娘,目光热切,几乎充满了敬畏。她不知道这是不是一场梦,但她总觉得自己看到这孩子的脖子上印着紫罗兰细小的手指印。大概紫罗兰在堆雪人的时候曾经用手轻轻地拍过她一下,却忘了把迹印抹平。

“不管怎么说,我的丈夫,”母亲再次想起天使们也许会跟她自己一样,很高兴同紫罗兰和牡丹一起玩,“不管怎么说,这孩子的确出奇地像个雪人!我相信她是雪做成的!”

一阵西风刮到雪孩子身上,她又像一颗星星那样闪光了。

“雪做成的!”林赛先生重复道,硬把不情愿的客人拉进他那殷勤好客的房门,“难怪她看上去就像雪。她都冻得半死啦,可怜的小家伙!不过旺旺的一炉火就能使她一切正常!”

这位极其仁慈和富于常识的好人不再多说,而且怀着一贯的良好愿望,把白衣小姑娘拽离严寒的户外,带进了舒适的客厅;而小姑娘则垂头丧气,越来越萎靡不振。客厅里一只海德堡火炉里填满了熊熊燃烧的无烟煤,正透过铁门上的云母薄板射出明亮的火光,把炉子上的水壶烧得雾气腾腾,咕咕欢唱。一股温暖闷人的气息弥漫在整个房间里。离炉子最远的一面墙上挂着一只温度计,显示着八十度。客厅里挂着红色窗帘,铺着红色地毯,看上去和室内的温度一样使人感到暖融融的。这儿的气氛同室外寒冷的冬日黄昏真有天壤之别,正像从新地岛一步跨入印度最热的地区,或者从北极一下子钻进了火炉。啊,这对陌生的白衣小姑娘可真是个好地方!

那位通晓常识的人让雪孩子站在炉前的地毯上,正对着嘶嘶作响、腾腾冒气的火炉。

“现在她会感觉舒服啦!”林赛先生高声说,一边搓着双手,环顾左右,脸上露出你所见过的最愉悦的微笑。“就跟在自己家里一样别拘束,我的孩子。”

白衣小姑娘站在炉前的地毯上,炉火的热浪像瘟疫一样猛扑过来,她显得是那么忧伤,忧伤而又消沉。有那么一次,她渴望地朝窗外投去一道目光,透过红色窗帘瞥见了白雪覆盖的屋顶,闪着寒光的星星,以及寒夜一切激动人心的美妙景象。寒风吹得窗户玻璃咯咯作响,仿佛正在召唤她前去,可是雪孩子却站在火热的炉前,越来越萎靡!

然而,通晓常识的林赛先生却看不出有什么不恰当。

“好啦,太太,”他说,“马上给她穿一双厚袜子,裹一条羊毛披巾或者毯子;告诉朵拉,牛奶一烧开就给她吃点暖和的东西当晚饭。你们,紫罗兰和牡丹,逗你们的小朋友开开心。你们看看,她发现自己来到一个陌生的地方,是那么没精打采。至于我嘛,要去几家邻居那儿转转,弄清楚她是谁家的孩子。”

这时候母亲就去找披巾和袜子,因为无论她生性多么敏感而细腻,到头来自己的观点总是会向丈夫顽固的实利主义让步。林赛先生毫不理睬两个孩子的抗议,任他们咕哝着说什么小雪妹妹不喜欢暖和,径直走了出去,还小心地回手把客厅门关好。他把大衣领子翻上去罩住耳朵,走出了屋子,刚走到临街的大门前,就听到紫罗兰和牡丹在尖声叫他回来,还有一只戴着顶针的手指在敲客厅的窗户。

“丈夫!丈夫!”妻子喊道,她惊恐的脸出现在窗户玻璃后面,“用不着去找孩子的父母啦!”

“我们告诉过你的,父亲!”当他回到客厅里的时候,紫罗兰和牡丹尖叫着说,“你非要带她进来;现在我们可怜的——可爱的——美丽的小雪妹妹融化了!”

两个孩子自己可爱的小脸蛋也融化出了滔滔泪水;父亲看到在这平凡无奇的世界上竟会偶尔发生这等怪事,于是颇为忧虑自己的孩子也会融化掉!他怀着极度的困惑,要求妻子给他解释一下,而她只能回答说,自己被紫罗兰和牡丹的叫喊声唤回客厅,发现白衣小姑娘已经渺无踪影,只留下一堆白雪,就在她仔细查看的时候,白雪也快在地毯上融化光了。

“你看那儿,就只剩下这个啦!”她补充说,指着炉子跟前的一汪水。

“是呀,爸爸,”紫罗兰说,她透过泪水用责备的目光看着他,“我们可爱的小雪妹妹只剩下一摊水啦!”

“讨厌的爸爸!”牡丹跺着脚喊道——我讲到这儿发起抖来——他还朝那位通晓常识的人挥舞着小拳头哩,“我们告诉过你会发生什么事!你为什么非要拉她进来?”

海德堡火炉似乎也透过铁门上的云母薄板对好心的林赛先生怒目而视,就像一个红眼魔鬼,为自己的恶作剧而扬扬得意!

你会说这是一桩罕见的怪事,然而它也会偶尔发生,常识一碰上这种事就不知所措。对于林赛先生所属的那个精明阶层的人来说,尽管小雪人的奇特故事或许只是件孩子气的傻事,然而也可以按照不同方式引出种种教训,给他们带来巨大的启示。譬如说教训之一就是,人们,尤其是心地仁慈的人们,应该预先考虑清楚自己要做的事,在按照自己的慈善目的行动之前,应该确信自己弄清了行动的性质和一切与之相关的东西。对某一个人而言是确凿无疑的有益之事,对另一个人来说则可能是绝对的灾祸。即使是客厅的温暖吧,对于像紫罗兰和牡丹这样的血肉之躯可谓适宜——尽管并不能说对他们的健康就非常有益——但对于不幸的小雪人来说,却只会导致毁灭。

但是,说到底,对于林赛先生这种类型的聪明人而言,是不可能引出任何教训的。他们通晓一切——啊,的确!——包括过去的一切,现在的一切,将来可能发生的一切。假如有某种源于自然或者出于天意的现象超越了他们的思维,他们是辨认不出来的,哪怕就在他们的鼻子尖下面发生。

“太太,”林赛先生在沉默片刻之后说,“你看孩子们的脚带进来多少雪啊!弄得炉子前面那么大一摊水。叫朵拉拿几条毛巾来吸干它!”

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